Autumn Cozy
by famousfirstwords95
Summary: Her life is especially cute on days when he brings his children in for their library time...Finchel AU. One-Shot


She is not a librarian. Just working in a library doesn't make her the " _-ian"_ of the place. She worked at a vegan hot dog stand in college and nobody called her _hot doggian_. It was just one thing that she did, and working in a library is just one thing that she, well, _does_.

It's not so bad. Most things aren't, and God knows there are worse jobs for struggling actresses in New York (well, she actually hopes God _doesn't_ know about some of the jobs her friend Santana's had recently).

And she _does_ like it when the kids come in for their library time, and sit in little circles while their teacher reads them all a book. They call her "Ms. Berry" when they have questions about something, and wave hello to her when they arrive, and goodbye when they leave. Actually most of her afternoons are spent waving hello and goodbye to little kids. It's not a role on Broadway, but at least she can say her life's getting _cuter_ by the day.

Her life is especially cute on Tuesdays. That's when all the second-graders come in for their library time. She thinks she must've liked second grade the best when she was in school; it's hard to remember now, honestly, but what she does know is that there's something about _this_ group on _this_ day that's always "the best." Part of it must be the teacher, Ms. Cohen-Chang, who loves singing songs with the children. Rachel loves hearing it; they're the only voices in the library that she doesn't have to "shush," and they're sweet, musical voices that make her want to sing on the subway going home.

There's another teacher who brings his kids in on Tuesdays as well. He's a tall one. So tall, she wonders if any of his seven-year-old students have ever actually seen his face. But she knows they have, because he's always crouching down to their little levels' whenever there's something he has to tell them in his _quiet voice_. Most of the kids aren't much shorter than she is, sadly, but he never crouches down to her level when he says hello to her (quietly). She's usually sitting behind her desk, and it's a long way looking up to see his face, but she thinks if she were even shorter and she _couldn't_ see it, then Tuesdays wouldn't be quite the cutest and the best after all. But somehow they always are.

Xx

"Ms. Berry?"

"Oh," she says aloud, startled. She'd been Googling the cast of _Hamilton_ on her phone. Luckily it's not Mrs. Himmelfarb, her boss, standing over her, but Mr. Hudson, the tall teacher. She should've known; his shadows always block out more of the light. Tall shadows do that, and it's nice, really, because those cheap fluorescent bulbs they use in schools are always far too blindingly bright.

"I'm sorry to bug you," he says. He's not a bug. Even if he were, she doubts she'd swat him away.

"Oh, that's alright." She hides her phone in her lap, embarrassed, although she suspects he's not actually here to police her internet usage on the job. "Something I can help you with?"

"Um, yeah, well I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on my class when they come in this afternoon? I've got a meeting with some parents and I, well unfortunately I can't be here, so…"

"Of course," she says.

"Yeah?"

"Not a problem."

"Great. _Thank you_. I normally have an aid on Tuesdays but she called in sick and I'm—well it's just one of those days, you know?"

She nods; she knows. He must roll up his sleeves a little when it's one of _those_ _days_. Also his eyebrows pinch together like he's trying to solve a long division problem in his head. "I'm happy to help, Mr. Hudson," she smiles. "Besides, it'll give me something more to do."

He chuckles a little, and she thinks his eyes might have a zoom lense; she wonders what parts of her they can see. "Yeah, what exactly is your job here if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, well I'm the, um—the media ancillary specialist."

"Oh." He's not pretending to know what that means. She's not either. "So did you like, go to school for that, or?"

"Uh, no. No I didn't. I studied performing arts at NYADA, actually. This job is just—I mean not that it's nothing, it's just, you know, it's _something_ while I go on auditions and try to further my career as an actress."

She talks too much; she's better than she used to be, and the thing she's come to learn as an adult is that people don't _actually_ care to hear that much, not even about the things they're asking you. But Mr. Hudson is different in that most parts of his face know how to stay looking interested in something, probably because he's used to young kids telling him long, nonsensical stories about unicorns as he nods along, eyes wide, asking, " _Really?_ And then what happened?"

"Awesome," is his response to her unicorn story. "Well, good luck with all that. I hope you, you know, get the part."

She smiles, weakly, because there isn't _actually_ a part for her, not yet. But Mr. Hudson wouldn't know all that, he's just saying to her what he'd say to a little girl that told him she wanted to be a star one day. "Thanks," she says softly.

"And thank _you_ for helping me out today." She hadn't noticed, how his fingertips rest on the edge of her desk, drumming slightly in a somehow steady, yet discordant beat. Her eyes drop down, then back up to meet his. "My kids shouldn't give you any trouble—I don't _think_. If they do you can call me on the intercom. Or just, you know, _smack 'em_."

He's smirking. It's a joke. She gets it, almost snorts in surprise, _her ugly laugh_ , but she keeps it together, laughs prettily. "Well, I suppose if all else fails I could just sing to them like Mary Poppins."

"Right, yeah. _Super-california-ballistic_ , or whatever that song is. They'd love it."

"Great." They're talking too much, breaking the laws of the library. It's criminal, really, how she's snorting and laughing, and she can see Mrs. Himmelfarb approaching, probably to shush their merriment and give her a pile of non-fiction titles to organize.

Mr. Hudson's face is now comically serious. "Good morning, Mrs. H.," he greets politely. The grey-haired woman pushes her glasses down to the tip of her nose, narrows her eyes at the two of them. They're in trouble, or, well, _everyone's_ in trouble with Mrs. H-Farb all the time, even the adults.

"Thank you again, Ms. Berry," he tells her. He nods goodbye to Mrs. H., and his eyes have a smirk in them as they wink goodbye to Rachel. She can feel herself laughing with a straight face, if that's even possible.

 _PLOP._

Mrs. H. drops a thick stack of geography books down in front of her, tells her to have them all catalogued and alphabetized before noon (a near-impossible task). She thinks Mr. Hudson just got her in trouble with the head librarian, but, well, she also thinks _trouble_ might be something she could get into a little more of around here.

Xx

Mrs. Cohen-Chang (well, _Tina_ —they only use their first names when they're being grown-ups in private) asks her if she wants to grab a drink sometime. She says sure; she likes Tina. Tina sings, and her personality is as nice as her voice.

They go to a bar for happy hour on Friday. It must be "the teacher bar" that they're at because there's several people she recognizes from school, all talking like adults in their loud, _outside voices_ , for a change.

Tina's lovely, she really is, although the bar is really _so loud_ at this time of night that their conversation consists of one of them saying something and then the other yelling "what?!"

They both give it up after a while, rolling their eyes, laughing, ordering more to drink. Her eyes are roaming freely when she sees—well, she sees a lot of things, but she happens to _notice_ Mr. Hudson, the tall teacher, at the other end of the room. He's scruffier, shirt untucked, _the_ _after-school version_. She's too far away to tell if it's a better version of him or not; she keeps watching him, though, trying to find out. His attention's being consumed by Mr. Evans, the blonde gym teacher whom she recognizes as well, and so she's free to hang her gaze on him, discreetly, from the dark corner of the bar that she's in.

All of a sudden he looks up, happens to look right at _her_. She blushes, forces an awkward grin, which he returns, not so awkwardly on his end. She's embarrassed, so she brings her glass to her lips, crawling inside of it as she takes too big of a sip, her eyes stealing one more glimpse of him calling the bartender over while nudging his blonde-haired friend.

Next thing she knows, that same bartender is at her and Tina's table with two drinks they didn't order. "These are from Finn," the bartender tells them.

"Who's Finn?" she asks, confused.

"Oh you know _Finn_ , he's one of only male teachers at Mckinley Elementary," Tina says.

"You mean Mr. Hudson?"

"Well yeah, but he has, like, an _adult_ name too," Tina laughs.

"Oh, of course. I just—I didn't know—"

"Hey Finn, thanks for the booze!" Tina says, raising her glass.

Rachel looks over, and then _up_ , to see Mr. _Finn_ Hudson standing at their table. He's got his hands in his pockets, and she's never seen him do that before. She feels her whole self relaxing in her seat all of a sudden; pocketed hands must do that to her, or it could be his warm eyes doing the _doing_.

"It's the least I can do for you, Tina," Finn says. "You're the best co-worker a guy could ask for."

"Yeah, isn't funny how the best way to thank a teacher is with vodka?" Tina jokes.

"I always thought they liked apples," Finn shrugs. "Who knew?"

"Yeah, that's—funny," Rachel says dumbly. She thought she should add to the conversation, _contribute_ , but now she's embarrassed again.

"I wanted to thank you too, actually," Finn says, turning his eyes on her. "You know, for helping me on Tuesday. You really saved my butt."

"You can say _ass_ , Finn, you're not in school at the moment," Tina says with a roll of her eyes.

Rachel can't keep from chuckling, because, come to think of it, she _is_ sort of expecting Mrs. Himmelfarb to walk in at any moment and shush the entire bar. And she imagines Finn must bear some acute paranoia that he's going to be "caught" swearing and drinking beer by a bunch of his young students.

"Is something _funny_ , Ms. Berry?"

And, _oh_ , but he's leaning forward now, hands out of pockets, fingers grasping the table's edge as his eyes narrow in on her face. It's in no way menacing, of course, but it takes a few beats of her heart for her to realize it's just him being funny with her; but by then he's already pulled back from the table, his eyes wide with concern as he scrambles to recover himself, saying, "Oh I was just kidding around. I didn't mean to—"

"Of course," she's quick to reassure him as she shifts a little in her seat.

"You'll get used to his sense of humor," Tina adds dryly.

Finn's cheeks are red with embarrassment. He blushes in his forehead as well; his chin too; his teeth maybe? She can't tell, but she thinks that _he_ thinks that _she_ thinks he's a real skeeze for saying what he said just now. That is _not_ what she thinks, and so she smiles friendlier, tells him, "Thank you so much for the drink, Finn. I was more than glad to be of some assistance the other day." She pauses, then adds, "Although, you _did_ get me in trouble with Mrs. Himmelfarb."

He searches her face for seriousness, quickly finding the telltale signs of sarcasm in her eyes. He smirks; well, smiles to the side. His mouth has such a natural pucker about it, like it's been drinking lemonade.

She thinks if it weren't for the playfulness about her eyes that he'd be overly apologetic about _getting her in trouble_. Instead, he just shrugs, flippantly. "Sorry 'bout that," he tells her.

And she doesn't say that it's alright; but it _is_ alright, and he knows it is too. She brings her drink to her lips, keeping her eyes on his as she takes a sip.

"Well, _everyone's_ in trouble with Mrs. Himmelfarb," Tina fills in. "In fact, we're probably in trouble right now." She looks all around. "Is she here?"

"Probably," Rachel nods, finally breaking eye contact with Finn. Well, they both had to blink _sometime_. "I expect her to march in any minute and order us all to drop everything and read."

"Dear," Finn says.

"What?"

"You know, D-E-A-R. It stands for Drop Everything and Read. My kids call it _dear_."

"Oh, of—of course."

"Uh, honey buns?" Mr. Evans, the blonde gym teacher, appears behind Finn. "We gonna shoot some pool, or what?"

Finn turns toward his shorter friend, claps him on the shoulder. "Yeah, man. Be right there."

"Thanks again for the drinks, Hudson," Tina says, raising her glass to him before he goes. "And feel free to keep them comin'."

"My pleasure, ladies." His eye prefers to wink on the same side of his face that his mouth prefers to smile on. "You stay out of trouble, alright?" he scolds. And she thinks his words, along with the finger he points, are aimed singularly at her.

Well, unfortunately he's gone before she can make him any promises. She's not sure that she would anyway, to be honest.

Xx

She goes on six auditions in one day and lands not a single one of the parts. The rejections hit her, blow by blow, all of them hurting in different areas of herself. It's not rock bottom; not quite yet. It's just a lot for her to take in, like an _injection_ of rejection, and it courses through her system and makes her pillow wet with tears when she wakes up on Sunday.

So she gets up, then gets a haircut. Nothing drastic, just shorter, with more layers toward the back. It's unlike her, really, but since none of the directors give her any reasons _why_ they keep on turning her down, she decides to blame the whole thing on her hair. Her _haircut's_ the problem; the culprit. It must be. Nonsensical as it is, it's what she needs to believe if she's going to shuffle through another week in the life of a dream chaser.

At school on Monday she almost cries. It's because of the kids; they like her _so_ much, their little hands waving hi and goodbye, and it's like at least she's finally good enough for _somebody_. She sits there, behind her desk at the library, and she's good enough. She does _nothing_ , and that's good enough for them too.

So she cries on her lunch break, alone, in the faculty lounge. There's no faculty around, thank God, because she needs a minute, more minutes to cry, but she keeps her back to the doorway, sniffling while her hands go through the motions of making a very bad pot of coffee.

She doesn't hear him come in, but he seems to close the gap between being faraway and being near to her in only seconds flat. He's just— _there_ , suddenly, and he's turning her into him, or she's turning herself in, guided by his soft hand on her shoulder. She drops her head slightly; and she admits, she hadn't been letting herself think about him hardly at all, because there's just been a little _too much_ going on inside her head these past few days, but now, well, _now_ she's so tired with her teary eyes and wilted posture, and she's not being very _cute_ for him in this moment, but demanding cute things from her on the spot doesn't seem to be the reason why he came.

His lips graze her forehead as her face downturns. He stays there for a moment as her eyes fall shut, and she feels his hands stroking lightly through her hair before they come to rest on either side of her head. It's so quiet, and they're so _close_ to one another, like the closed blinds in the windows, but there's _just_ enough space between them for the light to still get in. Slowly, he tilts her face up to look at her, and, seeing her sadness, his brow furrows. He kisses it all away—or tries to, his puckered lips light and everywhere, dotting all over her face with softness. He even kisses the very tip of her nose. Then he pulls away, just as her hand comes up to wrap affectionately around his watch-wearing wrist. Their eyes are locked, and it's the strangest thing, like all the world's secrets are being kept between them in this quiet little room.

He must hear it; the faint rumbles of a something, or a some _one_ coming down the hall. Suddenly they're apart from one another, him leaving, her staying to prep the coffee pot. It's brewing when she hears him in hallway saying hello to Mrs. Weederhouse, his voice warm in her heart as though secretly he were saying hello to _her_ instead.

She smoothes a hand over her dress and smiles softly to herself. She doesn't really know what that was.

Xx

Their eyes don't meet again until tomorrow. Tuesday. His day to bring his children to the library. There's no kissing of her face, or touching of her hair, and when he says hello to her it's quite formal, friendly, his teacher voice. Of course she knew not to expect otherwise, not in the presence of seven-year-olds.

The hour passes by with scarcely another blink from him in her direction. And then, while Tina reads a story to both her class and Finn's, his eyes flash over to hers, faster than blinking, and her stomach feels like a firefly that's just been let out of a mason jar.

She buries her face in the encyclopedias she's supposed to be organizing, already feeling like Mrs. Himmelfarb's caught onto their trouble. Her eyes don't lift from her work until minutes later, after Tina's finished her story and the children are lining up to leave, when someone places a chapter book under her nose. It's a _Goosebumps_ book that only the fifth graders are allowed to check out. Her head travels the great distance up to meet the eyes of what would be the tallest fifth grader in the world standing over her desk if it weren't Finn.

"Oh. Hello."

"Have you ever read that one?" he asks, nodding toward the book. "It was always one of my favorites. Especially the stuff that happens on page eighty-seven."

She's barely conscious of his fingers drumming lightly on her desk before he's gone, his children waving, "Goodbye Ms. Berry!"

"Goodbye Ms. Berry," he calls to her before he leaves.

She reaches for the _Goosebumps_ book, flips immediately to the eighty-seventh page (no doubt the climactic part of the story). There's a slip of paper filed in between the spooky words on yellowing pages, Finn's phone number scribbled in boyish handwriting underneath the question, _Sunnybrook Park on our lunch break?_

She plucks the note out, folds it discreetly before dropping it into her pocket. Talk about _goosebumps_.

Xx

It's one of the brisker days they've had so far this fall and she pulls her sweater tight around her shoulders as she crosses the bridge over the clear, gentle waters of the stream. Her eyes are peeled for him, but she doesn't have to look that far. He's there, underneath a tree whose leaves have long since turned red. She sees him scribbling something on a notepad, and for a moment she's hesitant to break his concentration; the breeze breaks it for him as it blows the pages of his notepad back. He looks up then, and she's there, just _there_ , like the wind blew her in. But _there_ is where he wants her to be, and they share soft, secretive smiles as all the nature around them whispers in its quiet way.

She meets him under the sprawling branches, slivers of sunlight filing in through the gaps where a great many leaves have fallen. They gaze at each other and one set of eyes tells a story that the other set reads, and next thing she knows he's stooping down to kiss her, and she's pushing up on her tiptoes to be kissed.

He kisses her face, pulls away, and smiles. Then he kisses another part of her face, pulls away, smiles. She notices new things about him every time; new colors in his eyes; the chapped portions of his bottom lip; the way tufts of his hair seem to grow in odd patterns with little consistency no matter how thoroughly he runs a comb through it. She reaches up and takes one crooked tuft between her fingers; she means to smooth it over, but then leaves it as it is. She'd rather it grow the way it wants to grow.

"I'm glad you came," he tells her, his voice not disturbing the peace, but blending symphonically with it.

"Me too."

"You were sad yesterday."

She nods. "I was."

"Are you sad today?"

She shakes her head. "Nope." She pushes up to press a kiss to his jawline, softly, his stubble rough on her lips. He chuckles like he might be just a little bit ticklish there, and he's grinning boyishly when her heels have returned to the ground.

His phone buzzes from—somewhere. His pocket. He sighs. "I should be heading back."

"Of course. Me too." She was about to ask him about the freckles on his nose; who put them there, and why did they stop? Another breeze blows in, and both can feel the autumn's flirtation with the winter months ahead.

"Geez," he says. "It's pretty chilly out today."

"Well, you'll bring a sweater next time," she tells him. She puts a sweater on him with her eyes. He tugs hers in closer to her heart, so it covers the exposed skin of her neck. Then he reaches for her hand.

With their fingers laced like a pattern, they cross the bridge together, their feet crunching on fallen leaves as they follow the crooked path back toward the park's gated exit. They keep on stealing little glances, their eyes warm and winking every time.

At the gate, though, she has to leave him. McKinley is right across the street, and wouldn't the gossips of the faculty just love to be peering out a window and catch her "canoodling" with a Mr. Hudson.

When he lets go of her hand he sort of releases her fingers slowly, one by one, then turns to face her, his large frame shading her small one from the rich October sun. "Thank you," she tells him softly, "for the book recommendation."

They share a smile that's more like...a _secret_. Their secret. It's like they're being loud in the library again (although really, they've not been saying much at all; not with _words_ , that is). A little red leaf wanders in with the breeze, lands against the collar of her sweater. He plucks it off with his two fingers, hands it to her. She takes it; it's redder than a rose, anyway.

"I'll see you later, Rachel." The bell rings. He's going, but not gone. He hesitates, turns back, stoops to brush his lips against her hairline, murmurs, again, "I'll see you later."

Xx

That evening she's curled up on her couch, legs under a blanket, _Funny Girl_ on the television, her Barbra notebook in her lap. It's her aesthetic, really, _no really_ , except she can't stop thinking about the boy who kissed her nose under a tree that afternoon. The memory makes her feel bubbly in her toes, and she can't help but wonder what becomes of him when he goes home at night. Like, she imagines he's got this old t-shirt from high school that he wears, and a half-eaten jar of peanut butter in his fridge. All her imaginings make her grin. And then she wonders...well, wonders if _he_ wonders, about her.

She hasn't texted a boy in quite some time and she doesn't know if he'd even—well, she doesn't _know_ anything, really, but she thinks boys don't typically give their numbers to girls they don't want calling them.

And _surely_ no boy has ever kissed all over a face that he didn't want lingering in his mind's eye after hours.

Her phone's on the coffee table, and really, she's not being very studious in her Barbra-watching anyway, and so she reaches for it, pulls up the number he'd slipped inside of a _Goosebumps_ book along with his invitation to meet him that afternoon. She texts him,

 **Hi**

So very prolific of her, she knows, and yet...it's fine. She's happy with her "hi" as she reads it over, and even happier when her phone buzzes with his reply.

 **Hi**

 **What are you doing?**

 **Nothing. watching the game...going over my lesson plan for tomorrow.** A pause, and then he follows up with: **What are u doing?**

 **Nothing. Drinking tea**

 **Oh. Sounds nice**

 **It is**

It's not very profound, these things they're saying, and yet somehow she doesn't feel bored or boring. In fact she thinks she could go on like this, _on and on_ like this, until it occurs to her that he might not even recognize her number at all. She never gave it to him, anyway, and so perhaps this is a thing he does; he texts with strangers. Not strangers who are _strange_ , but like, if someone waves to him on the street, he waves back, even if he doesn't know their name. She thinks that could very well be what he's doing now; he's just waving back. But then suddenly another message comes through that lets her know she's no stranger to him.

 **Wanna meet me again tomorrow?**

And she smiles, because really, she knew; well, knew that he knew; knew _her_. He may not have had her number, but he still _recognized_ that it was her calling. He must have, because that's exactly how she feels; she feels recognized. By him.

 **Okay. Just make sure you bring a sweater this time.**

 **I will. See you tomorrow Rachel.**

 **See you tomorrow Finn.**

Xx

The next day she wears her hair in a low ponytail and walks to Sunnybrook Park on her lunch break. She crosses the tiny bridge but finds him nowhere in sight. She knows she's in the right place, and that she has the right tree; it's the only tree in the park whose leaves have all turned red.

"Hi," she hears his voice behind her.

She turns around, and he's there. He remembered his sweater this time; it looks warm on him, like his eyes on her.

It's funny what happens next. No words, just smiles like secrets. A conversation of hearts. She starts moving toward him, slowly at first, and then—oh, she can't explain it, but she throws her arms around him, and his laughter's in her ear as he lifts her lightly off her feet. She feels somewhat like a child, her cheek against his shoulder, fingertips squeezing the broad, sweatery expanse of his upper half. It had felt like the thing to do—leaves in the grass, sun in the sky, his arms open wide.

"Hi," she says after he's placed her feet back on the ground. "Your sweater. It's nice."

"So's yours."

Some kind of bug, the kind that lives to see October, buzzes near his ear before flying straight into his eye. He flinches at it, face scrunching. It's funny. She laughs, not prettily, her loud cackle, and she can barely stand up straight. Her brief fit of hysterics ends when she looks up to see his face turned gravely serious, jawline tense, arms folded across his chest.

"I really can't believe you, Rachel. To just stand there, laughing at me like that? I don't at all appreciate it."

She hiccups, hand over her chest. "Oh Finn, I—I was just...I'm sorry."

"S'not very nice." He's shaking his head. "Not very nice at all. In fact, I think I'm gonna just leave right now."

"Finn, wait," she pleads, takes hold of his arm as he's pivoting away from her. She _insists_ that she's so sorry. She'll never laugh again.

He's halfway to the bridge, and she's just barely got him by the loose threads of his sweater before he's slipped from her grasp entirely; but then, in a blink, he turns back, sort of sweeps her up with the wind, eyes winking, lips all pucker-y in their lemonade grin. She sees the blurred, beautified colors of the world blow by like a carousel as he spins her, around and around until they're both dizzy with laughter.

Xx

They meet on the days he doesn't have a parent conference or a teacher's meeting. Which is most days.

It's sort of like an accidental happening that occurs. He shows up, and then she shows up, both in the same place, under the same tree. Of course, though, it's always planned ahead of time, either by way of winking eyes in the library or text messages late at night.

She likes it when he picks her up, carries her over to sit in his lap underneath the red-leaf tree. He typically does it when he's showed up late and her back is turned and he sneaks up behind her.

They don't talk much; it isn't because there's nothing to say. All the words worth saying are somehow spoken in the silence. She hears those words, and, more importantly, she _feels_ them. It's strange, really, because she's always been a talker, and yet never felt like many were actually listening. She can't explain what it is about Finn that makes her feel... _heard_. Even when she's not making a sound.

Xx

But they _do_ talk, of course. She likes texting him her randomness. A paragraph summary of her neighbor's dog. How she misses buying school supplies but doesn't miss going to school. How she's tired of everybody hating on cupcakes.

It's boring. _She's_ boring, and yet she somehow feels like she's randomly interesting. She _does not_ feel annoying, and strangers catch her smiling on the subway when her phone buzzes with his reply.

 **Yeah cupcakes are the best bc you get more frosting**

It's not even _texting_ , really. Texting is lol's and heart-eyed emojis. This is passing notes in class, or it's a tin can telephone. She can't explain, but the thing about it is, no one's asking her to.

"You must get very hungry," she says. They've just crossed the bridge, on their way back, and there's a pressing issue on her mind. "This _is_ our lunch break, and I just—welI, I've never seen you eat."

"Um. Well, you're gonna laugh, but I...eat twice."

"What?"

"I eat two lunches," he admits to her. "I scarf the first one while my kids are at art class."

"And the second one?"

He smiles. "I eat before I come here to meet you."

Her jaw falls slightly agape. "You're kidding?"

"Nope."

"Wow. Well, that's quite a healthy appetite you have."

"Yeah," he shrugs, "All the career tests I took in high school said I'd be a great competitive eating champion."

Sometimes she wonders if he can even feel her squeeze his hand. He's so large and a light touch from her is barely but a speck on him. "Well. I'm sure they said you'd be great at other things too."

He shakes his head. "Nah. They didn't." He doesn't look sad, he just looks...used to it.

The bell rings across the street. Both have to hurry back, and so he stoops to press a kiss against her hairline. As always, their fingers unlace, and she feels hers reaching out for him when he's gone, catching only the wind.

Xx

Sometimes she sees him writing on a notepad. It's usually when she arrives late and he's already there, under their tree, scribbling thoughts that look like they're his own; not work thoughts, or teacher thoughts, just _Finn_ thoughts. She never reads them off the pages, but some days she reads a certain story in his eyes...it's like the story _behind_ the story. The winks between the blinks.

There are so many boyish wonders in his face. Sadness, for the most part, isn't one of the wonders she can see. Still, she feels compelled to ask him one afternoon as the leaves tumble down like red rain and he holds her in his lap, "Did you always want to be a tall teacher?"

She's curious because she's always been an _always_ kind of person. Always big dreams. Always Barbra. _Always_ Broadway.

As for Finn, somehow she gets the feeling that his 'always' wasn't always _this_. "Wasn't a whole lot I could do about the tall thing," he answers. "When I was younger I wanted to be a football player." He shrugs. "But, ya know—what ten-year-old boy doesn't?"

She nods. He never really answered the question; but it's alright. She doesn't ask it twice, just lays her head on his shoulder and lets their fingers intertwine somewhere in her lap.

The following day, Mrs. Himmelfarb has her deliver a very heavy stack of math books to Mrs. Eigenfeld on the second floor. She's just exited the stairwell near the second-grade wing when she hears Finn...singing? Or more like rapping. Or _trying_ to rap, about fractions. He's clearly making it up as he goes, rhyming numbers like _nine_ with words like _slime_ , all to the great amusement of the children in his class. Their laughter filters out into the hallway, making her smile as though she were one of them.

Mrs. Himmelfarb will yell at her when she gets back, but she really can't help but linger in the empty hall, her smile barely contained. Her face flushes red when suddenly he appears in the open doorway, hand pulling it shut before he notices her silent presence.

"Oh. Hi, Ms. Berry."

Despite her embarrassment they both share soft winks in secret before he slowly closes the door behind him. She thinks she's going to have to start catching those winks and putting them in her pocket and carrying them around with her forever.

Xx

One morning she packs him a third lunch and in the afternoon she brings it to him when they meet. She writes him a little note, sticks it in the bag alongside the sandwich and the chocolate milk.

 _Finn Hudson, you are indeed a very special thing._

His smiles crookedly as he reads it silently to himself, and his eyes are warm, full of appreciation when his gaze lifts to meet hers. "Thank you," he murmurs, then kisses her on the lips.

They've never done that before. After all this time, she _had_ begun to wonder just how sideways of a person she'd need to be in order to get their lips in line for a kiss. But he doesn't kiss sideways; he kisses on _all_ sides, full on her mouth, and she feels it on the tip of her nose too. She feels it everywhere.

"That was a great thing you did with the kids the other day," she tells him. "You know, with the rapping and the fractions. I could tell they were all really enjoying it."

"Yeah, I was just goofing off." He shrugs. "S'no big deal. It's just how I relate to them, I guess."

There's this lock of hair near his ear that looks like it's growing in fourteen directions at once. She threads her fingers through it, mesmerized by all his meandering patterns of growth; they're all patterns she thinks are perfect. "Those children are going to grow up smiling when they think of you, Finn. And not just because you taught them about fractions, but because you...because you gave them a happy memory."

Her words do reach him—somewhere, at least, and yet it's only a half-hearted smile that he offers. She likes it better when he smiles with his whole heart. "Maybe you're right," he says. "I just wish it were something... _more_."

"What more is there?"

Something flashes in his eyes, but he blinks it away, like dust, before she can put her finger it. "I really hope you feel special too, Rachel," he tells her, his voice warm and sincere.

Besides her fathers, no one's ever hoped that for her before.

Xx

He finally hears her sing. It's Tuesday, his and Tina's day to bring their second-graders in to the library. Tina's just getting over a cold, her voice all weak and raspy when she attempts to sing.

"Ms. Berry, why don't you fill in for me today?" Tina croaks. "You'd like to hear Ms. Berry sing, wouldn't you, boys and girls?"

She might've declined if all those adorable children hadn't answered "yes" in unision. Well, who can say no to those kinds of yeses? _She_ can't, and so she smiles somewhat clumsily as she heads toward the front of the room.

It's silly, how nervous she actually is. She's always felt that when she sings it's her heart coming out to greet the world. It's her honesty; her purest version; her one true self.

It's nothing, really, the little song about a baby bumblebee that she sings. The kids all know it and they sing along, louder than her, so it's no Maria Von Trapp moment or anything. It's _barely_ a moment at all before it's a memory, but her life is way too cute right now to bother blushing and avoiding his eyes.

And there he is, way too beautiful with his tall self standing off to the side, strong hands in deep pockets, nose all scrunchy when he smiles that way. If she didn't know better—and she doesn't—she might think he liked her voice singing songs about a bumblebee better than any seven-year-old in America.

Xx

Something weird happens. She goes on an audition, gets the part. It's an understudy, so it's more like part of a part, but still. It's _Hamilton_ —one of the Schuyler sisters, the one she relates to the least, but she'll take the part. Oh God will she take the part, and _does_ , and then doesn't know quite what to do with herself. It's a new thing, this whole not being rejected by a director thing, and she doesn't know what to do with her fingers or her toes or her elbows or her eyelashes now that she's a sort-of member of an _actual_ Broadway cast.

She'll play the role of Eliza better than she's currently playing the role of herself, no doubt, but she thinks the thing that really, truly disheartens her is the thought of quitting the library, of quitting the children, of quitting...of quitting _him_.

Her Broadway dreams cannot be shelved like a paperback in the fiction section, of course, and she doesn't get the feeling Mrs. Himmelfarb's going to miss her when she tells her she has to leave.

She hasn't told Finn yet, and when she goes to meet him, she forgets her sweater. By now the wind has blown all the leaves off their favorite tree; she stands under it anyway, shivering and waiting. Soon enough she hears his footsteps approaching, but before she turns to greet him he wraps his own sweater around her cold shoulders from behind. Of course one sleeve of his clothing fits practically the whole of her, and she's cozy in her heart now as she pivots in his arms.

He kisses her nose hello. Is there a goodbye in her eyes? She has a feeling there might just be, and that he might just know the words she's about to say before she says them. "I...got the part," she tells him softly.

Nothing changes in his face. His freckles don't connect. The little candles in his eyes don't flicker out. The crooked pattern of his smile still meanders toward its same old boyish loveliness. He is as he always is, and really, he just looks very happy. "I knew you would, Rach," he says.

They hug for a very long time. Later, as they're making their way back, she feels some parts of him hold onto her while some parts let her go. She wonders what parts he'd hold onto if he really did perhaps...love her.

A gust of wind chills her in odd bones as they arrive at the gate and he turns to face her. "It's c-cold, Finn," she says redundantly, not quite knowing whether her teeth are chattering or if she's trying not to cry.

"I know it is," he tells her. "But it's alright. You're going to be all nice and warm underneath those stage lights." He pulls her sweater— _his_ sweater—tight around her shoulders. "And you'll have to remember to put on a sweater next time you go out in the cold."

There's a crooked smile on his face that curves toward the sadder side. She doesn't know quite what to do with herself and so she tilts her face up slightly, her eyes falling shut when she feels his warm lips against her forehead. They linger there, longer than normal, until inevitably the bell rings. He has to go back; he _has_ to, and she has to go on to other things.

He does go back, and she does go on, and she doesn't tell him how she's worried...worried she's going to be cold without him no matter how many lights shine on her or how many sweaters she wears.

Xx

A wise person once referred to Broadway as "the hard way." That wise person was correct; however, for Rachel Berry, Broadway was the _only_ way, _anyway_ , and no words were ever so wise that they could succeed in deterring her from it. Whoever built her, built her for exactly this kind of madness. It's the work she was born to do—and she loves it. Loves the stage; loves upstage and downstage; loves _back_ stage; loves the grueling rehearsals, and the pressure, and the high stakes (the highest). She's exhausted all the time, and all the time she's wide awake.

It's agony. It's awesome.

Xx

She's still only an understudy. And so that's what she does—she studies. _Hard_. Over the years she's come to know a great many characters better than she knows herself. It's easy, really; easy to understand a person whose lines and mannerisms have all been scripted.

But inevitably there comes a time when she can be no other girl but Rachel Berry. She doesn't _dream_ in character, after all, and, naturally, her heart can't be persuaded to unknow itself.

She hasn't spoken to him since her last day at McKinley. It should come as no surprise, really; their little affair, whatever it was, was just a wink across a crowded room, a kiss on the nose, a secret shared, and, more importantly, a secret _kept_ between the two of them. No one knows where they go from here. Only _they_ know, and what's strange is how she feels him even closer to her heart now that he's so far gone.

Xx

And she won't pretend she hasn't been busy, and she won't pretend she's even texted him once at all. She doesn't pretend things when she's not acting; and she's _not_ _acting_ as if she doesn't feel like...like he really did let her go.

Xx

The problem with being an understudy is that the thing you don't want to happen, or don't _want_ to want to happen, _needs_ to happen in order for you to get a chance to shine. That "thing" just so happens to happen when the lead actress breaks her ankle and Rachel is called upon to carry the role of Eliza Schuyler until further notice.

She's sorry, she's so, so sorry for the circumstances that brought this on, and yet SHE'S SO EXCITED! Her Broadway debut. Her dream. Okay, so the cast is a bit cliquey and reluctant to embrace her as the new Eliza (she's pretty sure some actually suspect of her of having pushed the other actress down the stairs) and the guy who plays King George III, Jesse St. Something, has been giving her death glares ever since she turned him down for a date, and Kitty in wardrobe mutters something about her Jew nose while tightening her girdle, and...well, there's more to be desired, obviously. More dreams to dream, but she'll start by living this one tonight.

She calls her fathers of course, and both demand front row seats (to _Hamilton_ , no less). She tells them to try Ebay, and that she'll see them very, very soon.

There's just one other person she wants to so badly to call, but she...she doesn't call him. She can't even bring herself to text the word "hi" for some silly reason, but what she does do is imagine the entire audience smiling with scrunchy noses and sweet, adoring, candle-lit eyes as she sings. She imagines an audience full of _him_. The thought warms her from head to foot, and her voice is music to her own ears when she hears it.

It's a circus backstage after the show. Even Jesse commends her performance, and a journalist with an afro approaches her for an interview, but in the midst of the commotion her eyes keep roaming the crowded hall, searching for the warm, winking gaze of another's. She doesn't find it, of course, and instead looks right into a photographer's flashbulb that nearly makes her go blind.

The crowd disperses eventually and she retires to the dressing room that isn't really hers. A bouquet of strikingly red flowers sits atop her vanity ("her" vanity); they catch her eye, because indeed they are beautiful, and yet her first assumption is that they're for someone else entirely. They're too Christmassy for one thing; poinsettias she thinks they're called, and they look more like leaves than flowers— _red leaves_ , like the ones that fall off the trees in...

Oh, but they aren't for someone else. They're for her. From _him_. She knows it before she even opens up the card, and when she does she reads all the children in his class's names signed adorably in different colored crayons, and at the bottom there's a little note from him.

 _Break a leg. Love, Finn._

She smiles through her tears, and pulls the word "love" in tight against her heart. Everything, _everything_ is so clear, despite her blurred vision. She texts him right away.

 **Hi**

She knows he's there. Before he even responds, she feels his presence. Like a tin can telephone, one can feel the other pulling on their end of the string; the string that connects their hearts. Their tether. It isn't long, though, before his reply does come through.

 **Hi**

It's one word. And it's poetry.

She asks him to meet her tomorrow—Sunday, _Hamilton's_ only dark day of the week. It's not as if she even needed to tell him where she'd be, but she puts two sweaters on under her coat and walks to Sunnybrook park. It isn't so sunny anymore, and the leaves have all dried up and blown away. They won't be coming back to this place, _the leaves_ , not until the buds bloom again in a brighter season.

But _Finn and Rachel_ come back to this place. They do, because love still blooms in the winter, with or without the sun.

And besides, it's always easy to come back to places your heart never left.

She sees him peek his head out from behind their tree—she knew he was there—and all she can do is run to him, to throw herself on him like a blanket. He catches her, and he must be wearing a thousand sweaters, layers upon layers of warmth that wrap her up. They're still outside, but it's like they've both just come in from the cold.

"I love you, Finn," she murmurs. "And you...you love me..."

"I do." There's a shudder in his voice, like he's not been keeping very warm lately. She knows the feeling.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she soothes. "I'm here…"

They don't speak for a while. And then, "You know, I think I fell in love with you that night at the bar when you thought you'd offended me by accident. And when I saw the way you were looking at me after I sang that bumblebee song to the kids, I nearly cried."

"I fell in love with you that day in the library when you laughed so hard you got in trouble with Mrs. Himmelfarb. And when I heard you sing for the first time, I..." he exhales deeply, "I knew I had to let you go."

Her fingers curl into the wool of his overcoat and she knows now that he can feel her, the touch of her gloved hand through any amount of layers he puts on. "Don't," she insists, shaking her head, "Don't let me go, Finn. I never want you to do that again."

He stoops to kiss the cold tip of her nose. "I won't," he promises, then pulls her in tight to his warm heart.

Later, when their coats are off and their gloves are off and their sweaters are off, she's _hot_ with his bare skin all over her, and hers all over his. The sheets keep on twirling them up inside. Afterwards she takes his hand and runs it all over herself, every inch of him touching her soul to soul and skin to skin.

Her curiosity already bested her and she asked him, how did he know to send her those flowers last night of all the nights she's been an understudy? He explains, "well, Tina follows the Broadway blogs," but she gathers by his winking gaze that "Tina" can only mean _him_.

He smiles crookedly, his Finn patterns, and his voice is low and sincere when he tells her how he wishes he could've been there in the audience last night.

She lays her head against his heart. "You were."

Xx

On an autumn day they have their wedding under their tree, its red leaves falling on her white dress in exactly the way she wants them. Their friends and family are in attendance of course, and yet the whole thing feels somewhat like a secret between the two of them. Rachel knows he'd be winking down at her if it weren't for the tears in his eyes, and honestly, she just wants him to feel like the most loved, most special man who's ever lived.

Many seasons come to pass before their children are old enough to be students in Finn's class. And still, she feels like every season is their autumn. Things change, leaves dry up and blow away, but love? Their love?

It stays.

Xx

 **The End.**

 **I seriously almost named this after a Bath and Body Works candle. Kinda sorry I didn't tbh haha. As always, thanks for reading :)**


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